


Burning Bridges

by rex_who



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Doctor John, Domestic arguments, Dreams, Kidnapping, Original Character - Freeform, Therapy, Weird dreams, asthmatic Jim, escaping, like literally just says Jim's been tortured, non-described torture, not really - Freeform, sort of canon, undercover agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:26:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rex_who/pseuds/rex_who
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after series three.<br/>After Jim resurrected himself from the dead, he managed to get himself arrested. Fortunately, he's got a couple of... friends high up in the government who managed to get him out early, and just attend therapy twice a week. However one of his therapy sessions goes a little wrong, forcing him on the run from both sides of the law.<br/>Naturally, he ends up in Baker Street.<br/>Naturally, Sherlock lets him stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Did you miss me? (#sorrynotsorry) I sure missed you! i'm kinda going through a phase with my writing where I start things and never pick them back up. The 'Far From Home' work? Yeah, that's one of thoes too, as is this. Be sure to leave your thoughts in the comments box, because honestly? They're more appreciated than you can imagine.  
> I realise the title is probably totally irrelevant, but titles are always the hardest part.  
> Love goes out to you all, and I hope you're all having wonderful, enriching lives. If not, drop me a line and I'll see what I can do.  
> Peace out!

“People don’t just wake up like you. Something must have happened to you, and I can’t help you unless you tell me.” The curly haired woman leaned forwards. “Come on Jim; you can’t block me out forever.” Jim stared up at the ceiling. It was the only part of the office that wasn’t covered in various certificates, and he stared at the smooth plaster, refusing to speak.

The therapist sat back in her chair. It really was beginning to frustrate her, Jim’s refusal to say a word. She knew the only reason he even entered her office twice a week was because a police officer was stood behind him blocking the exit. She flipped through what little information she’d been given about her new patient. Jim carried on staring at the ceiling, humming quietly to himself. He looked quite at ease, stretched across the couch with his arms folded behind his head, foot tapping idly.

Jim tilted his head to the side to stare out of the enormous window. The bustle of the city droned on below them, the perfect backdrop to Jim’s thoughts. A helicopter in the distance grew bigger as it moved steadily towards them. “Could you reach into my pocket, please?” The therapist stared at him. They were the first words he’d spoken in her presence, and she obliged, keen to see if he’d say anything more.

She carefully put her hand in the pocket of his expensive suit, careful not to touch his leg too much, and the tips of her fingers brushed against something. She pulled it out, and saw it was a packet of chewing gum. Jim opened his mouth, and she sighed before pulling out a piece and putting it in his mouth. “Thanks, love.” He chewed in silence, smirking when she made a quick note in her journal. “Tell me; does that helicopter look like it’s flying a little too close to us?”

“We are being chatty all of a sudden,” commented the therapist as she looked out of the window. “However, I’d say you’re right; that helicopter is flying a little close. Is it a problem, James?”

“It is until you know who’s in there.” She sat back, puzzled by his response. “I hope you’re not too attached to your life,” said Jim. “Are you threatening me?” she asked, mildly insulted and terrified when he threw back his head and laughed. “No. But they are.” The therapist jerked her head round the helicopter door open, and a man stood with a sizeable gun take aim at her office.

She screamed and threw herself at the floor, covering her head as the glass broke around her. Jim stayed on his sofa, chewing his gum, eyes closed. The noise of the helicopter grew louder as it drew closer, and Jim heard someone landing on the soft carpeted floor of the therapist’s office.

“James Moriarty?”

“You’re in trouble if it’s not,” replied Jim. His eyes opened when he felt himself being lifted. “Excuse you?” A bag was placed over his head, and his hands bound. He was carried across the room before a pair of hands hooked themselves under his armpits, lifting him into the helicopter. He was thrown against the far wall, and the door slid shut. He heard a voice reporting that ‘the spider was in the nest’. He laughed to himself, and spent the remainder of the journey figuring out who exactly had taken him, and where exactly they were going.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bag is lifted off Jim's head, and he finds out who it is that's got him. And believe Jim when he says it's not good news...

The bag was whipped off his head with an almost dramatic flair. Before him stood the one man who was capable of instilling fear into him.

“Cain Powers.” Cain smiled. “Good morning, Jim. I trust your trip was comfortable?” Jim shrugged. “Isn’t this a little odd, Cain? I’m not bound to a chair in some dusty cellar somewhere?” Cain laughed. “No, Jim. You’re not an animal; why would I keep you in an enclosure? Anyway, I have no need for chains or ropes or anything like that. You’ll stay where I tell you, and that’s the end of the matter.”

“No it’s not,” protested Jim. “What leverage do you have against me? I have nothing left, and you know that. You made sure of that during our last encounter.” Cain smiled again. “For fuck’s sakes, STOP SMILING!” yelled Jim. The next thing he knew, he was slammed against the wall, pinned there by an excess weight. Cain held a knife to his throat. “Now, now Jim. We’re just having fun. Are you not having fun?” Jim stayed silent, not knowing the correct response. This man was a psycho. One wrong word could result in that hand ‘twitching’, and his throat being slit. “See Jim, you’re too keen to preserve your own life. You don’t have sense of the bigger picture; you don’t want to end your life to help the cause. You only want to get yourself out, and the rest of them can burn in hell for all you care. That’s why you’ll do what I tell you. You want to get out of this, correct? It’s possible, but only if you follow the rules.”

Cain moved his arm, and Jim moved away from the wall. “Oh yeah? And what are the rules?”

“Rule number one: you don’t scream. You scream, and it’ll only get worse.” Jim could feel his heart rate accelerating. He tried not to let his nervousness show as Cain carried on. “Rule number two: don’t call home. Rule three: do exactly as I tell you.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath.”

“And you’re a war criminal! Yet here we both are.” Cain grinned. “You’ll soon get the hang of it Jim. For now, I have some calls to make, and you’re going to stay here. I will have a friend come along in a few minutes to keep you out of trouble.”

Cain left the room, and for the first time since his arrival, Jim let the panic show on his face. His training hadn’t covered this: being kidnapped by some psychopath who’d killed off most of his family simply because of Jim’s involvement with a certain incident in Ukraine.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror. _God, I’m a mess._ He reached into his jacket for his comb, and found that it, along with his gun and dagger had been removed. He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair to try and restore its slicked back look. There was a knock on the door, and a woman came in. “Jim Moriarty?”

“Irene Adler?” Jim stared. “I haven’t seen you in years! What are you doing here?” Irene shifted uncomfortably. “I… I work for Cain now. Well, I say work…” she looked at the floor uncomfortably. “It’s not Irene _Adler_ anymore. It’s Irene Powers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene Powers? What?! Ten points for the bright cookie who can see where this is going. Predictablility is my curse, I'm afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim meets another member of the Powers family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a short one, this time. Yeah, I realise it could have been on the end of the last one, but never mind :)

Irene’s visit had been uncomfortable for both people involved. Even a week she’d left, Jim was still shocked by the fact she’d run off and married _Cain Powers,_ of all people… he sank down onto the floor, giving up entirely on himself. It wasn’t jealousy he felt, more of a betrayal. If Irene was no longer on his side, then who truly was? He doubted Seb would waste the time to look for him; after all, people go missing all the time.

He’d been there a month, and he doubted he would last much longer. He was seriously considering throwing himself out of an upstairs window when the door handle turned. He braced, ready for another round of torture. However, it wasn’t Cain or any of his thugs that appeared from the other side of the door. Instead, a small child put his head round. “Daddy?” He laid eyes on Jim, and they widened in fear. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Hey, Champ! I’m Jim! You wanna come talk to me?” the child toddled in curiosity getting the better of him. This was just too good. Cain had a son, and people will do anything to protect their offspring. “What’s your name?” asked Jim, overly friendly. “Carl,” said the boy, thumb in mouth. “Hey Carl! You wanna play a game?”

Cain sat at his table with Irene, eating lunch. “Darling, what were you planning to do about Jim?  He’s been here a month, and I can’t keep Carl away from that room forever.” Cain sighed. “Sorry Irene, but you’re going to have to do your best. He’s almost ready to crack, I can feel it.”

“Can’t you just let him go?” pleaded Irene. Cain shook his head. “No way,” he said. “Not when I’m this close, and I need that information for a partner in Beijing…” Irene held out her hand. “The less I know, the better,” she said. Cain pulled her in close and kissed her. “That’s my girl.”

“Cain!” Jim’s voice shouted from the top of the stairs. Cain bolted out of the room and into the hallway. There, he saw Jim, and a giggling little boy held in a headlock…

“Carl!” Carl giggled. “It’s okay, Jim’s playing a game!”

“That’s right, Cain,” confirmed Jim. “And it’s your turn. There are two moves for you. Either I leave, and your boy lives, or I stay and he dies. I’ll play along with whatever choice you make, but choose now.”

Cain stared up in horror. He really couldn’t afford to lose that information, but he wasn’t prepared to let Jim kill his only child. His brain went into meltdown as Jim started counting down.

“Five… four… three… two… one…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Cain is an original character, there's some things that I, the creator, may be able to see that you can not. For example, I want to make it very clear that Cain Powers is a piece of work. He is a nasty, nasty man like Jim. However, unlike Jim, he doesn't bother about theatricals, and there's no logic or reason behind his killing. Cain Powers is, in my mind, the type of character who will kill because he doesn't like the look you're giving him. He'll kill with no regard for politics or diplomacy.  
> He has but one weak link; his little boy Carl. I've tweaked the age of Carl to suit my own purposes because shut up. The point is, once you have a child in your care, you'll do anything to keep them safe, and Cain is no different.  
> (Just as a quick note, no, I do not have children)  
> Oh, and one more thing: not even Cain Powers is abusive towards his wife. That's low.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim makes his break for freedom, but of course, there's a price.

“…one… time’s up!”

“ALRIGHT! You win, Jim. Let him go.”

“And you won’t touch me as I walk out that door?” Cain growled. “You have my word. Please, let go of my son.” Jim relaxed his arm. “Come on Carl, run over to Daddy. Game over.” Carl toddled down the stairs, and Jim bolted for it, knowing that now his son was out of danger, Cain would waste no time in turning deadly. He was almost out of the door when a gunshot sounded, and a searing pain shot through his shoulder. “Jim! Come back here right now!”

Jim ran. Out the door, into the street, clutching at his bleeding shoulder. _Where to go…?_ A sign for a tube station caught his eye, and he ran towards it, hoping that he’d at least be able to lose anyone Cain sent after him in the crowds. He slid down the bannisters, almost knocking over an old lady at the bottom as he landed. Jim kept on running to the closest platform, and just caught the train as the doors were closing, making it in by a hair.

He sat down, panting and wheezing. Tilting his head back on the window, he started laughing. Just a little giggle at first, but it grew into maniacal cackling. Jim knew he was getting funny looks, but when had he ever cared about that? He was free. Free! He didn’t think he’d ever be so happy to be on the London Underground.

The train pulled to a stop, and Jim looked to see where he was. Baker Street. _Why does that ring a bell?_ The doors opened and closed, people left and entered the train, and just as the train pulled away, Jim realised. _Baker Street: the home of my_ favourite _consulting detective. I bet he’d help me._

Jim stood up from his seat, noting with concern the sizeable blood stain left behind. A woman with pushchair cleared her throat behind him. “Excuse me, sir?”

Jim turned around. “Are… I mean… Is everything alright?” Jim grabbed her by the shoulders. “Everything’s just perfect!” he cried. “I’m going home!” with dramatic flair, he hit the emergency stop button. The train slammed to a halt, throwing people off balance. Jim calmly pressed the door open button, ignoring the voice of the train driver telling them that they shouldn’t panic as he strolled out into the dark tunnel. The wind ruffled through his uncombed hair, and Jim just laughed as he broke out into a run back through the tunnel in the direction of Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Jim, being shot! Ouch!  
> Bless Carl's little cotton socks, he still thinks Jim was only playing...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world's only consulting detective is very, very bored when a distraction comes crawling up the stairs.

“JOHN!” there was a sound of shattering china and John came running round the corner. “Sherlock, what is it?” What’s wrong?”

Sherlock was lying on his back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “I’m bored, John.” John sighed. “I could have had a nice life,” he muttered. “Settled down, adopted a cat, and lived out my days in peace. But, OH NO, Mike fucking Stamford had to fix me up with you as a roommate.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as John shuffled back into the kitchen to sweep up the mess. For God’s sakes, why did everything get so boring! Moriarty had been thrown into jail, and Sherlock (not that he’d ever confess) was waiting with eager anticipation for the day of his release.

Because Sherlock knew he wouldn’t serve a full sentence. Sherlock was surprised they’d got him into jail in the first place. But Sherlock would bet his reputation that Jim would be back in society before the year was out. Until then, he was stuck with boring cases. Regular homicides, done in a regular way by regular killers… it was all just so…

“BORING!!” he shouted. John put his head around the door. “Sherlock, please, log into your emails, check your cases, do _something_ other than drive me insane!” Sherlock sighed as he rolled over to retrieve his laptop. He logged into his emails and found a grand total of nothing waiting for him. He clicked through email after email, looking for something that might be of vague interest to him. Now that he’d made a name for himself, everyone wanted his help on the stupidest of little things.

 _Dear Mr Holmes,_ one read. _My name is Miss Carter, and I’m recently divorced. I need your help in finding out who my husband left me for, so that I can eliminate the threat, if you know what I mean… ;)_

Sherlock slammed his laptop shut. “Pathetic.” A creak on the stairs reached his ears, and he bolted upright instantly. “What’s the matter?” asked John. _Honestly, it’s like living with a Chihuahua on drugs…_

“Nothing, replied Sherlock quickly. “John, I need you to buy milk.”

“But Sherlock, we have milk. I got some this morning.” Sherlock hummed with impatience. “Yes, John, but we’re going to need some more.” John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Sherlock, if you need some alone time or whatever, you could just ask…”

John out on his coat and headed down the stairs. Sherlock jumped into action, filling the kettle with cold water and putting it on to boil. Even if Moriarty didn’t want tea, boiling water might be useful as a distraction for a quick getaway…

“Sherlock! Get down here now! I need your help!”

“I’m coming, John!” oh shit, why had he not thought that sending John might get him hurt! He threw open the door, and found John supporting a gasping, bloody Moriarty. “Help me get him to the sofa,” instructed John, medical training kicking in. Sherlock lifted up Moriarty’s feet and carried him over to the sofa. He assessed Moriarty’s condition. He’d been running; obviously. However, most people didn’t sound like broken down generators after a run…

“Are you asthmatic?” asked Sherlock. Moriarty nodded, and Sherlock ran for the bathroom. he rifled through all the drawers and cupboards, searching for Mycroft’s inhaler that he’d forgotten after being triggered by dust during a visit. Sherlock had never bothered to return it, figuring if Mycroft needed it, he’d come back for it himself. Sherlock had originally planned to pierce the aerosol can inside, just to see what was in there, but he was glad he hadn’t.

Sherlock ran back to Jim, shook the inhaler and handed it over. “Deep breaths,” he instructed. Jim wrinkled his nose a little at the thought of using someone else’s inhaler, but decided against making a fuss as he placed it into his mouth and puffed.

After three puffs, his breathing started to calm a little. John was already tending to the source of the blood, which turned out to be a gunshot wound on his shoulder. “Moriarty, I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid there’s not a lot more I can do while you’re still wearing your shirt. You’re going to have to take it off.” Moriarty grunted his consent, and John carefully eased of the shirt causing Moriarty to swear like a sailor when he ripped the garment off the sticky patches of semi-congealed blood. “Sorry! All done now. I can get to treatment, which may sting a little.

Sherlock went to the kitchen and found the bottle of Jack Daniels he’d been given by Lestrade as a joke. He poured a small measure into a glass tumbler and brought it through to Moriarty. He handed it over without a word, then sat back in his chair and watched John get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I realise that in this chapter I wrote John as being generally moody and bitchy, when he's really just sick of a bored Sherlock, because a bored Sherlock is an annoying Sherlock. When Jim comes in, his medical training and compassion kicks in, and he's back to the good old John we know and love.  
> Honestly, there are so many Sheriarty fics that are hating on John, it's sad... :(  
> And also, asthmatic Jim! Who knew, right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a discussion about their current houseguest, which leads to a somewhat more animated discussion with said houseguest come morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid there might be an issue with this chapter if you've had problems with eating disorders, or are in fact currently having problems with an eating disorder. I wouldn't myself class it as a serious problem, but I wouldn't know, and I don't want any of you lovely, lovely people having problems because of me.  
> If you don't want to read about it, I would stop reading when Sherlock says "Let me make one thing clear", and pick up again at the start of the next paragraph.

John finished cleaning and stitching, and Moriarty fell asleep. John wasted no time. “Sherlock, he can’t stay here.”

“I mean it,” he carried on, as if Sherlock had protested. “He’s an international terrorist along with lord knows what else, and I might have treated his wound but that’s as far as I'm going. He can’t stay here.”

“We can’t throw him out,” stated Sherlock. John stared at him. “Sherlock, can you hear yourself? Give him the right moment and he’ll kill us both in our sleep!”

“He won’t,” said Sherlock. “He’s weak, vulnerable. Why else would he come here? He’s got nowhere else to go, no contact with any of his network and he’s clearly got someone out for his blood.”

“Just one more reason he can’t stay!” protested John. “We let him stay and we’ll have all sorts of assassins knocking on the door.” Sherlock shook his head. “John, where’s your humanity gone?”

“And where’s yours come from all of a sudden? Since when did you care about another human being?” Moriarty stirred in his sleep, shifting slightly, brow creasing as he shifted onto his injured shoulder. John lowered his voice. “Sherlock, I understand where you’re coming from. If it were anyone else in the world, I’d totally agree with you. But the man strapped me into a semtex vest, and had you at gunpoint. Sherlock, he persuaded you to jump off the top of a building!”

“I know!” said Sherlock. “I’ve told you a million times, I knew that was going to happen and to jump and have the snipers see me jump was the only way to save you! I had several plans to get off that rooftop, and I had absolutely no intention of actually killing myself.”

“Knew it,” muttered Moriarty sleepily. Sherlock and John whipped round. “Didn’t realise you’d woken up,” said John. “He hasn’t,” stated Sherlock.

Moriarty had indeed fallen back to sleep again. Sherlock turned his attention back to John. “He’s staying here, for tonight at least. Go to bed, and I’ll stay here and keep an eye on him.” John wanted to argue, Lord knows he did, but it was late and he was tired. “Know what? Fine. Have it your way Sherlock. I swear to god I’ll be glad to see you gone.”

They both knew it wasn’t true; the way John had cried when he thought Sherlock had jumped had proved it. John wandered off to bed, seriously debating moving out. Sherlock sat down in his chair with his laptop and started making notes.

About quarter to two in the morning, Jim woke up. He was in a place that smelt strange yet familiar with a cold sweat pouring down his face from the nightmares. He pushed himself up, groaning quietly when a searing pain jolted through his shoulder. “Morning,” came Sherlock’s voice. “What time is it?” asked Jim. “Almost ten to two in the morning,” Sherlock told him. “Nightmares?”

Jim was about to answer when he remembered who he was talking to. _Hello? This is Sherlock Holmes, your nemesis?_ He instead elected to remain silent. Sherlock shrugged. “Fine. Get some more sleep, and in the morning we’ll discuss where we’re, or rather, _you’re_ going from here.” Jim stayed sat up. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said, knowing he sounded childish. Sherlock sighed, closing his laptop. “Alright, what do you want to talk about?”  Jim shrugged. “Moriarty, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

“Aren’t we feeling charitable? Maybe I don’t want your help, Sherlock. And anyway, it’s Jim.”

“If you don’t want my help, why did you come here?”

“It was an excuse to pull the emergency stop lever on the tube.” Sherlock huffed. “I don’t know how they do it,” he noted to himself aloud. “How do ordinary people be nice to everyone, especially when people are being so ridiculously stubborn?”

“Aren’t ordinary people adorable?” said Jim softly, remembering his previous visit to Baker Street. He’d been sat in that very chair where Sherlock was now, and there’d been tea. That’d been after his trial for apparently opening up the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison and the Tower (with a little assistance, of course) which had ultimately ended with him walking away a free man. Shame his second trial hadn’t ended so well.

Sherlock laughed at the memory. “That drove me absolutely crazy, you know. Trying to figure out I.O.U. I saw it everywhere. It was like I could see you round every corner laughing at me.”

“Oh, I was, but you never saw me.” Jim was surprised at Sherlock’s little confession. Probably a tactic to get him to open up more. It wasn’t going to work, though. The past month of torture had rendered Jim’s emotions void. After all, the only feeling he was permitted was pain, and pain was more of an unpleasant sensation than an emotion for Jim.

“No one ever does, unless you want them to.”

“Flattery? Honestly, Sherlock, I thought we were past all that.” Sherlock shook his head. “Less flattery, more an observation.”

“A false one, I might add. Thanks to you, I’m somewhat high profile.”

“Thanks to me? How is it my fault?” protested Sherlock. “When you threw me to the wolves, it was quite big news. Finally, James Moriarty paying for his many crimes,” spat Moriarty, bitterly, recalling how he’d sat in his cell, quietly thinking things over. How he’d blamed it all on Sherlock. “As it was such a big story, and such a slow news week, the news of my arrest was plastered everywhere, meaning everyone that was after me for whatever reason knew exactly where I was. I got so many letters whilst in jail from wannabe criminals, petty teenagers who rob the corner shop for kicks. I also got a fir few death threats. Consequently, by the time my contacts had pulled the right strings to get me out, I was so afraid for my life that they sent me with an officer to therapy twice a week, which is where Cain Powers found me.” Sherlock nodded. He’d been called in for that one.

“Your therapist survived, by the way,” he told Jim. Jim rolled his eyes. “Why do I care?”

“Why do you care about what?” John had gotten out of bed. “John, go back to bed. You’ve got work in the morning,” said Sherlock. “Sherlock, it’s seven o’clock. Don’t tell me you two have been talking all night?” Jim nodded. “That’s right, Johnny. Stellar job on the shoulder, by the way.”

“Uh, thanks. Sherlock, can I have a word with you? In private?” Sherlock followed John into the kitchen. “Really, John, this isn’t the most secure place in the world,” he commented. “Sherlock, what did he say to you?”

“Well, remember that case about a month ago, where the helicopter attacked the therapist’s office? They were after Jim, and-”

“Wait, its Jim now?” asked John. “Yes, John, keep up. I called him Moriarty and he corrected me. Anyway, Cain Powers is responsible for the attack and the torture Jim has been through.”

“Torture? Who said anything about torture?” Jim joined them in the kitchen. “Must you really ask, Jim?”

“Ah, yes, I forgot. Silly me! This is Sherlock Holmes, World’s only consulting detective, crime fighter extraordinaire,” drawled Jim. “Enough, both of you!” shouted John. “I have to go to work now or the electricity bill will never get paid, and by the time I get back, I expect you to be gone, and you to have a case,” he said, pointing at Jim and Sherlock respectively.

John stormed out of the door, leaving Sherlock and Jim stood in the kitchen. Sherlock glowered at Jim. “Not for nothing, Sherlock, but the last person who looked at me like that- I got laid,” said Jim. Sherlock flounced out of the kitchen. “What, you’re mad because your pet shouted at you?” teased Jim. “Believe it or not, John is not my pet, in any sense of the word. John is my roommate and my friend, and I try to make an effort to do things his way.” Jim mock yawned. “Booooring,” he drawled. “You know, they’re much more fun as pets, but then again I suppose you’ve never had much use for pets. Not like the rest of us.” Sherlock sank down in his chair, and Jim carefully lowered himself into the chair opposite. “Get out of John’s chair.” Jim ignored him. “No, little Sherly has never had a pet before, not a human pet anyway.”

“It became illegal to own another human being in…”

“That’s not what I meant; my dear and you know it. you just don’t want to go down that conversational route.”

“And why do you?” asked Sherlock. “Why do you insist on making me feel uncomfortable?” Jim laughed. “Oh, Sherlock, sex is nothing to feel uncomfortable about! I was just going to have a friendly conversation with you; just locker room banter, that’s all.” Sherlock stood up suddenly. “You know, I didn’t have to let you stay. John wanted to throw you out; said you’d stab us in our sleep. I argued on your behalf. I hoped you’d changed.”

“And I hoped you hadn’t!” replied Jim, standing a little too close to Sherlock in an intimidation tactic. “What’s happened to you, Sherlock? I leave for two years and it’s like I don’t even know you anymore?”

“You didn’t know me before,” said Sherlock. “Oh, but I did. I knew you. I knew you weren’t going to jump off that roof, I knew you’d come to rescue John by the poolside, I knew that IOU would drive you INSANE!”

“IT WASN’T THE IOU, IT WAS THE FALL! IT WAS OUR LITTLE GAME! THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED, JIM! RUNNING ROUND AFTER YOU, TRYING TO RIGHT ALL YOUR WRONGS, THAT’S WHAT DROVE ME INSANE!”

“RIGHT MY WRONGS?!” shouted Jim. “RIGHT MY FUCKING WRONGS? OH MY GOD, SHERLOCK, YOU PORTRAY YOURSELF AS SUCH A FUCKING SAINT, SO ABOVE THE REST OF US DIRTY ANIMALS BUT WHEN IT COMES DOWN TO IT YOU’LL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO SURVIVE, JUST LIKE THE REST OF US!”

“ENOUGH!!” shouted Sherlock. In a fit of rage, he swept all the papers and glasses off the coffee table and pushed Jim onto it, deliberately pushing him injured shoulder first.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he said, foot on Jim’s shoulder. “I am not a saint. I don’t think of myself above you; I see myself as your equal. The reason I changed, Jim, is because I was losing John. I was losing Molly, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, my parents; I pushed everyone away and replaced them with you. I’ve always said I’m married to my work, but I was obsessed. I spent every minute of every day looking for you, for clues of your existence. I hospitalised myself because I wouldn’t eat, sleep or drink because I was so fixated on my one goal. If John hadn’t found me passed out on the bathroom floor, then I would have died. I promised him in hospital that I would give up my silly dream. I would give up pursuing our games. I would give up you. I changed for the people I love, Jim. You didn’t do the same because you have no one. And that’s why I’m letting you stay. Because without me, there’s no you. And without you, there’s no me.”

Jim stayed silent after Sherlock’s tirade, only speaking after a lengthy pause. “That was really rather touching,” he drawled. Sherlock removed his foot, still irritated. “You know, Sherlock, angry suits you. Sent my heart a-flutter when you shouted at me.” Sherlock sank back in his chair, ignoring Jim. He was beginning to regret revealing himself like that, leaving himself vulnerable.

Jim bobbed down beside him, squatting next to the chair. “You ended up in hospital because of me?”

“It was a very indirect link, but if it makes you feel better, then yes; it was because of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one's a little long, but I just had so much fun writing it, you know?  
> What a heartfelt confession! How unlike Sherlock! If you didn't read it, in short terrms, Sherlock neglected his basic needs in order to pursue work, and Jim feels more than a little touched.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim sort out living arrangements, and John isn't best pleased.

At lunchtime, Sherlock opened up a can of soup, decanting the contents into ceramic bowls before putting them in the microwave. “John’s point still remains valid, Jim. You can stay here if you want, but you’ll have to help me persuade John to let you stay. And even if you are staying here, where do you want to sleep?” He handed Jim his bowl. Jim took it appreciatively, tilting his head in thought as he considered his options. “Well, obviously, I can’t leave. I’ve apparently managed to get myself into quite a sticky situation, and it wasn’t even my fault this time.” Sherlock snorted.

“No, I mean it! I was in therapy when they attacked. I haven’t had any projects since my resurrection. I knew Cain had it out for me because of a small incident in Ukraine that still wasn’t my fault. Not that it stopped him punishing me, of course.” His eyes watered, and he blinked away the tears with a sense of self-loathing in his gut. _No!_ he told himself sternly. _Save those tears for the pillow, soldier._

Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t seem to have noticed, or rather, he wasn’t acting upon it because the cocky bastard noticed everything. “However much it pains me to say it, Sherly, I need your help.”

Sherlock watched as Jim blinked his big chocolate eyes at him. “It’s Sherlock,” he corrected. Jim rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I need your help in tracking down the people responsible for my fall from grace, and I’d prefer it was you helping me.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock suspiciously. “Because you’re the best,” said Jim. Sherlock shrugged, unable to deny the truth.

“What’ll we tell John?” pondered Sherlock. “You care too much,” commented Jim. “Who cares what John thinks? It’s Sherlock Holmes, not Sherlock Watson. Unless it is…?” queried Jim. “No, it’s Mary Watson,” said Sherlock. “Like I already said.”

“Funny,” said Jim. “I always thought John was gay.”

“So did Mrs Hudson.” Jim laughed. “Anyway, if you’re really that bothered, it can be our little secret. You can tell John that I’m living here because of your new found compassion, and you can tell him there’s no one out for me, tell him whatever you want. I’ll back it up.” Sherlock nodded. “John’s due home at five thirty, so we have until then to come up with an excuse.”

“As for sleeping arrangements…” started Jim. “Well, I’d say on the sofa, but then I tend to wander around at night with experiments and the like, so I’m tempted to say you can have my bed.”

“Ooh, exciting!” said Jim, mock adoration in his eyes. Sherlock gave him a look that could peel paint. “Obviously, I would not be in it at the same time.”

“Evidently.” No matter how he pretended otherwise, Jim wasn’t particularly open to the idea of spending a night in between the sheets with Sherlock Holmes, who he regularly reminded himself, was his nemesis. Or anyone, for that matter. He didn’t like the idea of being close to someone while he slept.

“So, that’s that. I’ll sleep in your bed, John will sleep in John’s bed, and you won’t sleep in any bed. Sounds like the start of a bad sitcom.”  Sherlock smiled, wondering how he was going to explain all this to John.

*****

John walked home from work, enjoying the fresh air after being cramped up in the doctor’s office all day. Hopefully, the flat would be criminal free when he got back. Or rather, psychopath free, as Sherlock had indeed killed a man. He didn’t know where Sherlock’s new founded compassion had come from. Of course, after the incident in hospital he’d changed dramatically, desperate to earn his freedom again. He was nicer to people, more considerate, less of an asshole (most of the time). John had felt like screaming when he’d found Moriarty at the bottom of their stairs. Now that’s what Sherlock would fixate on. And maybe, that’s why he wasn’t letting him go. John shuddered at the thought. _No,_ he reasoned. _Sherlock isn’t that stupid. He wouldn’t risk our safety just so he can keep playing his little games… would he?_

John decided that no, he wouldn’t, and his mood brightened considerably. The flat would be Moriarty-less when he returned.

He arrived outside the flat and saw that all the windows were intact. That had to mean something. He pushed open the door, and almost collided with Mrs Hudson. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” he said, brushing himself off. “That’s quite alright, my dear,” she said. “The gentleman upstairs and I had a similar incident this morning.” John faltered. “The gentleman upstairs?”

“You know, Moriarty. I thought he was some hardened criminal, what with him appearing on the news and such, but I thought he must be alright if you boys are letting him stay with you.” A string of curses foul enough to make his grandmother cry flowed through John’s head. “When you bumped into him, Mrs Hudson, was he leaving?” Mrs Hudson shook her head. “No, I don’t think he was. He was running up and down the stairs. Said it was  good for his calves.” John nodded. “Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer, John. Lovely chatting to you; give my love to Mary!”

John made his way upstairs, hoping Mrs Hudson was wrong. He could hear Sherlock’s violin and nothing else coming from the flat. It was a tuneful melody, one the John knew Sherlock hadn’t composed himself. That was unusual. He pushed open the door and his heart fell through the floorboards.

Sherlock was indeed playing the violin, but Moriarty was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, had bobbing slightly in time with the music. Neither of them acknowledged that he’d walked in, but it went without saying that they both realised he was there. He quietly hung up his coat, not wanting to disturb the music. Sherlock finished with grandioso, and Jim nodded in approval. “I can see why John likes it,” he said, talking as if John weren’t there. Said man cleared his throat, announcing his presence in the most discrete way he could. “Yes, John, we both know you’re there,” said Sherlock, still shuffling through music. “Umm, Sherlock? Can I have another word with you?”

“You want to know why I’m still here,” said Jim, still without looking at him. It was really starting to freak John out, how both people in the room still hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. “Yes, that would be nice.”

“Because there is nowhere else for him to go, and having him here isn’t putting us in any immediate danger.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want him around if it’s just because you’re afraid to lose him again.” _God, it sounded like he was talking to a teenage couple._ “I mean, that is to say…”

“I know exactly what you mean, John.” Sherlock turned round and locked his eyes with John’s. “You think I’m going to lose all sense of reality again. You think that I’ll put both of our lives at risk just because he dared me to. Let me tell you, that is not the case. Jim is here because he has asked for my help, and that is what he is going to get. My help.” Sherlock had decided on telling John the truth, hoping that in doing so, John would still trust him.

“Sherlock, do you know what you’re getting yourself into? When he asked for your help, what did he ask for help with? Killing people? Re-building his criminal empire? You understand that helping this man will, in the end, leave you with a criminal record, and there are some things even Mycroft can’t clear up for you.”

“I don’t want him to! For god’s sakes I’m a grown man, and it’s high time everyone started treating me as such! Jim is staying here, and that’s the end of it!” John stared at Sherlock. This type of outburst was highly out of character, because while Sherlock was a drama queen, he normally avoided outright yelling at people. John watched as Sherlock stormed off to his room, not really supporting his ‘grown man’ statement.

Jim watched the emotions cross John’s face. _Oh god, he’s not going to cry, is he?_ “Listen, John. I’m not going to stab you both in your sleep. That wouldn’t be a good idea; it wouldn’t be the slightest bit beneficial for me.” John wasn’t sure whether he felt better or not. “Listen, I only need Sherlock to find people for me. The people I’m mixed up with, they don’t get found. I need Sherlock because he’s the best, there’s no point saying otherwise. I'm not going to make him shoot people. That would take the pleasure away from me.” Jim grinned brightly.

John sank down in his chair, conflicted. He was defeated, there was nothing more to it, but he wasn’t happy in his defeat. There had been no compromise, no deals or arrangements. Sherlock had created an ultimatum, and John had no choice but to go along with it. He got the feeling that he’d lost that particular argument before it had even started, and that’s what bothered him. Eventually, he stood up again. “I’m making tea. Would you like some tea?” he asked politely. “Tea would be lovely, thank you John.”

Jim smiled politely up at John, which made the latter feel extremely uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much arguing! Gah! Poor Mrs Hudson, having to listen to those three going at it all the time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John both interpret things very differently...

_He was running. He had to run, or Jim would kill Sherlock. Or was it the other way round? He didn’t know anymore. He kept on running, cold biting at his face. All he knew was he had to run from the wolves that were circling._

_A gunshot rang out. A whine came from the pack of wolves, and the gunshots kept coming. He kept running, looking as best he could over his shoulder. He tripped over a tree root, hitting the ground with a thud. He feared for his life, but there were no wolves left. They all lay dead on the ground, their blood staining the snow scarlet. Sherlock stood with a smoking gun, tears streaming down his face. Moriarty appeared from behind a tree. “Well done,” he purred in Sherlock’s ear. “You found the wolves. They were special wolves, you know. Very rare wolves, and you killed them all, just to stop me killing John. I guess you do care about him.”_

_“N-no,” choked out Sherlock, still staring at him. “I-it’s you. Only y-you.” A slow smile spread across Moriarty’s face. “Come here,” the criminal said, tilting Sherlock’s face round. “Give me a kiss.”_

_He watched in horror as the two men in front of him got more and more involved with each other, falling down into the blood stained snow._

_“It’s your fault, you know.” Mycroft purred from behind him. “If you’d had run, this never would have happened.”_

_“What’s going to happen to him?” he heard himself saying. Mycroft looked angry. “Because of you, I have to send Sherlock away. We’re going to send him to Afghanistan.”_

_“NO!” he screamed. “He didn’t mean to kill those wolves.” Mycroft laughed. “You think this is about the wolves? No, no, no! You stupid man. You always were stupid; not a high enough calibre for my little brother. No wonder he turned to Jim.”_

_“No,” he protested. “No, he’s only with Jim because he said he’d kill me.”_

_“AND NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” shouted Mycroft. John turned back around, and there were Moriarty and Sherlock, practically naked in the snow._

“NOO!” shouted John. He sat up bolt upright. He’d fallen on the floor during the night, and he picked himself up gracelessly. Tea. Thant’s what he needed. A hot mug of tea to calm his jittery nerves.

He slumped on through to the kitchen, and jumped out of his skin when he saw Sherlock there, fully clothed, Moriarty-less. “Bad dreams?” asked Sherlock, even though he’d heard John shouting in his sleep. John simply nodded. Something Mycroft had said in his dream ran through his head.

_If you’d had run, this would never have happened._

“Sherlock, I think I’m going to move back out.” Sherlock pulled his head out of his experiment. “John, it’s late, or rather, it’s early, and you’ve just had a bad dream. Get your tea, then go back to bed and sleep on it. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

John was in such a fragile state of mind that he just did what Sherlock told him. Sherlock watched the door click shut. Truth be told, he knew exactly what John had dreamed of. He’d heard the thump of his body hitting the floor, and had quietly slipped into his room. John had a habit of talking in his sleep, and not just what he was saying either. Sherlock had listened in on John’s dream and quietly slipped out when John had woken up, hoping his bad dream would render his observation skills useless, so that he wouldn’t notice the open door.

He didn’t want John to move out, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to be constantly monitored like a child. He kept his hands busy with his experiment while his mind went to war on itself. He barely noticed his head drooping.

_It was the next morning. He awoke to find John stood over him, carrying a cardboard box. “Wake up, Sherlock!” John was saying. “I’m awake,” he said, confused. He hadn’t thought he’d fallen asleep at all. “You said you’d help me move boxes,” said John, staring down at him accusingly._

_“Why would I do that?” he asked. “You’re not going anywhere.”_

_“Yes, I am. We had that argument yesterday, remember?” and suddenly, he did remember. There had been shouting, and they’d both lost their temper. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Where’s Jim?” he asked._

_“Right behind you, darling.” Jim appeared out of nowhere, arms wrapping around his middle. “Why did you call me darling?”_

_“You said you didn’t like Sherly, so now I call you darling. I always like to have a silly name for my pets.”_

_John coughed. “Come on! You can’t really want to stay with him!” John dropped his box and grabbed onto his arm. Jim did the same on his other side, and he was being pulled from side to side. Jim gave an extra hard tug, and pulled him over to him. John was left holding his other arm, dismembered form the rest of his body. No one said anything as John packed the arm into his box and left. “Don’t worry about him,” purred Jim. “We can have plenty of fun here, pet.” He grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the sofa. “What are you doing?” he cried. “Don’t you remember?” asked Jim. “You belong to me now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Evidently, the most part of this chapter is in their dreams. It's creepy enough with a dream John running off with Sherlock's arm, let alone real John... creepy... interpret that how you want!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes his decision about living arrangements.

Jim himself hadn’t had such pleasant dreams either. There was nothing frightening about them, like John’s wolves, but he had woken up feeling slightly uncomfortable. He’d dreamt about Sherlock, and he wasn’t sure how to face him that morning without seeing various images from his dreams. Now or never.

He wandered through to the main area of the flat, trying his best to appear casual. The tension hit him like a slap in the face. John looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and Sherlock was unusually silent as he noted down various observations of his experiment. His hair was slightly flatter on one side, and Jim guessed he’d fallen asleep during the night. _Huh._ From the looks of things, they’d all had somewhat troubling dreams in one sense or another…

“Good morning!” he exclaimed brightly, enjoying the startled jump from both men. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starving!” he just got blank looks. “Don’t worry; I’ll make it. Sherlock, John, want anything?”

“No thanks,” said Sherlock. John just shook his head. “You alright, Johnny-boy? You look awful.” John flinched as Jim spoke directly to him, but seemed to get a grip on reality. “I’m fine, really. Just bad dreams.” Jim laughed. “I know that all too well.” He didn’t know why he was trying so hard to diffuse the awkwardness. “So, what was up in your nightmares, John? My therapist is all about dreams.”

“You have a therapist?” John blinked in disbelief. “ _Did._ It was one of the conditions of my release: go to a police approved therapist twice a week. God, she was fucking useless.”

“Stop that,” said Sherlock. “What? She was!”

“No, not that, just stop… talking, breathing, thinking, it’s annoying.” Sherlock dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Jim walked over to Sherlock’s experiment and laughed. “Oh, Sherlock. That’s basic. You simply react that with bromine to test for the presence of an unsaturated bond, or otherwise known as an alkene. Where’s your light source?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous. If I use it all testing to see if it’s an alkene, how will I know what type of alcohol it is?”

“Just keep a small sample of it behind, and chuck in some acidified potassium dichromate, and…” John covered his face with his hands. _Great, now there’s two of them. One more reason to move out._ He still couldn’t shake the feeling he was being used as blackmail, or rather, he refused to believe the alternative. His mind kept telling him the whole thing was legitimate, that Sherlock was working with Jim because he wanted to, but John didn’t want to believe it…

“Oh yeah? What if it is a tertiary alcohol? Where does that leave me?”

“That’s not my problem! You wanted to know what type of alcohol it was!” John cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt the year 12 chemistry lesson, but I need to talk to you. More Sherlock than Jim, but I suppose it applies to you too.” The two chemists stared daggers at each other before turning to John. “You want to say you’re moving out,” said Sherlock. “Christ, Sherlock! Can I not say something without you deducing what it is first?” Sherlock bowed his head. “Sorry, John. What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“I would like to say that I am moving back in with Mary. I don’t feel my presence is required here anymore. I’ll tell Mycroft that you’re back to normal,” said John, looking anywhere but the two faces staring at him. “Well John, I am sorry to hear that,” said Sherlock, feigning formality. “Apart from the Mycroft part, of course. Would you like some assistance in packing your things?”

A tiny part of Sherlock’s mind was relieved when John said no, he wouldn’t. all he could think of was his dream, where John and Jim played human tug-of-war with him. _Stop being so silly,_ he thought. _It was just a dream. But still…_ he engaged himself back in his experiment, begrudgingly doing what Jim had said to.

Jim smiled as Sherlock buried his head back in his experiment. He picked up his plate of toast and went through to John’s room, where John was collecting the hideous sweaters he’d brought with him. He sank down quietly on the bed.

John almost jumped out of his skin for the second time that morning when he turned around to find Jim sat on his bed. “You have got to stop doing that!” he said, picking up his jumpers from the floor. “Why are you really moving out, John?” asked Jim quietly. “Like I said; Sherlock is fine. I can trust him to take care of himself properly now.”

“No, you don’t trust him. Your little argument yesterday proved that. You don’t fool either of us, but Sherlock just doesn’t care. He just wants his freedom back. I on the other hand do care. I want to know why you’re really moving out, and that’s the last time I’ll ask.”

“Because I don’t trust you,” said John, deciding that it was better to just tell the truth. After all, Moriarty wouldn’t kill him for telling the truth… right?

“Good decision.”

“Moving out, or not trusting you?”

“Both.” Jim stood up, shortening the gap between them, managing to look intimidating despite his height disadvantage. “But trust me when I say this, John Hamish Watson: if you make things difficult, I will kill you. If you go running to big brother, I will shoot you. If you go running to Scotland Yard, I will strangle you. You so much as tell your wife I’m here, I will bury you alive. Understand?”

John was scared shitless. “I- I understand.” Jim picked up the last jumper and handed it to him with a smile. “Good. don’t make me regret not blowing you up while I had you all covered in Semtex.” He walked out the room, taking his toast with him, but leaving his threat heavy in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what Jim is up to? Anything in particular, or is he just being bad? Sorry for all the chemistry, I couldn't help but show off a teeny bit... :) anyway, i've been revising chemistry for three days! I'm going insane!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock get started on Jim's case, which ends up in a lesson in ettiquette for Sherlock.

“Well, now that’s John’s safely seen off, I think it’s about time we started looking at my problem, correct?” Sherlock nodded. “Where should we start?” Jim shrugged. “I don’t think my network will be much use in this one. I’ve been out for too long, what with jail and being abducted and living with you, so some of them may be feeling less loyal than can be trusted.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s like you’re _trying_ to be an extra in a 50’s gangster movie. I’ll use my homeless network. Who are we looking for first?”

“Irene Powers.”

“Should I know her?” asked Sherlock. “You do,” said Jim. “It’s Irene Adler’s new name.” Sherlock’s jaw fell open. “Irene Adler got married?” Jim nodded. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

Sherlock was still reeling with shock. _Irene Adler was married!_ The only way he could be more surprised is if she’d married John. It just seemed odd that Irene would marry at all.

“Sherloooock? Still with me, Sherly?” Jim waved his hand in front of Sherlock’s face. “We’re going to kill Irene?” Jim shook his head. “Don’t be so boring, Sherlock. We’re going to _borrow_ her to get Cain to come out and play.”

“Going straight for the top isn’t always a good idea.”

“Neither’s opening your mouth, now shut up and help me track her down.” Sherlock pulled his laptop off the coffee table and onto his lap, and Jim shifted closer so he could see. Sherlock was all too aware of the hot breath down the back of his neck. “Can you not do that?” he asked. “What, am I thinking too loudly again?”

“No, you’re breathing down the back of my neck.” Jim held up his hands. “Sorry, I can’t help breathing!” Sherlock growled under his breath. “This is going to be difficult enough without you making things harder!”

“Making things harder? Sherlock, I was breathing! God, why do you have to be so annoying _and_ pretty!”

“Pretty? How dare you say I’m pretty?” Jim stared at him. “I didn’t, did I?”

“You did, just now.”

“I didn’t mean to, and anyway, what kind of reaction was that?” Jim folded his arms. “I just said you were pretty, and you shouted at me.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“No. put down the computer; the hunt for Irene can carry on later. We need to work on your social skills, namely accepting compliments.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, we don’t. I thought you wanted my help?” Jim held out his hand, pulling Sherlock off the sofa. “We’re going to do a little role play.”

“Evidently,  I’m being ignored.” Jim ignored him. “Now, let’s pretend that I’m a pretty young lady who’s trying to get into your pants. And you are being you, and you _will_ cooperate and have a romantic interest in my character.” Sherlock huffed in irritation. “This whole exercise is pointless! I don’t even like girls!” he slapped his hand over his mouth as if he’d said something illegal. Jim, seeing how embarrassed the detective was, noted the detail down in his brain but didn’t press it further as he continued in his game, starting to enjoy himself. “Fine, I’m a pretty young gentleman. Let’s begin.”

Jim let go of Sherlock’s hand and walked across the room, making a show of getting himself into character. He settled on a charming smile and walked up to Sherlock. “Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. I read in the paper the other day about that case where you arrested that awful Moriarty. I must say, I was very impressed.”

“Really? Because a simpleton could have figured it out. And as for Moriarty, he is not awful. He is by far the most interesting person in this otherwise dead city.” Jim refused to let his role play be ruined. “How intriguing. He must be truly exceptional to have captured your attention Mr Holmes. Your mind truly is incredible.” He was laying it on thick, desperate to provoke a reaction, Sherlock noted. _Fine. If Jim insists on doing this ridiculous exercise, then I may as well have fun too._

“Oh, yes,” said Sherlock, in what he hoped what his most seductive purr. “In fact, I might even go as far as saying he’s better than me; definitely in the aesthetic department if not mental. I could go on forever about those eyes. They’re a beautiful brown colour; the colour of precious amber.” Sherlock glanced over at Jim. The narcissist in him had taken over, and he was hooked. “And those lips… my God.” He closed his eyes in mock lovesickness. “It’s so hard to believe those gorgeous lips can say such nasty things.” He felt Jim press two fingers against his mouth, and he opened his eyes.

_Oh. Oh!_ Those weren’t fingers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim finally adress the elephant in the room.

Jim opened his eyes again to find a pair of blue ones staring back at him. _Ohgodohgodohgod I have fucked up big time now he won’t help me… he’s not pulled back._ In the end, Jim pulled back first, embarrassment igniting his cheeks. “So… that happened,” he said. Sherlock remained blank, cataloguing data (not that Jim knew that). “Yes, it did.” Sherlock paused. “I think, as far as compliment taking goes, that’s one of the best ways to go.” Jim blushed even deeper. “Look, Sherlock, I…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say for once in his life. “I think I want another,” said Sherlock cautiously. “To keep my  eyes closed so I can collect data.”

“Talk dirty to me,” muttered Jim sarcastically under his breath before leaning in for another kiss. That time, they both kept their eyes closed, and Jim felt a sneaky pair of hands slide round his waist. “Cheeky,” he muttered. Sherlock pulled away. “That didn’t mean stop,” whined Jim. “I know,” commented Sherlock, sinking back down onto the sofa. “I had simply gathered enough data.”

“You little rat,” growled Jim. “Shall we continue our search for Mrs Powers?” asked Sherlock, pulling open the laptop.

All afternoon, Sherlock caught himself glancing at Jim, and caught Jim glancing back. Of course, both being the stubborn men they were, neither wanted to be the first to bring up the events of earlier that afternoon. They made little to no progress on finding where Irene would be, as Jim couldn’t even remember the name of the tube station nearby (“I was traumatised!”), and anyway, it was improbable they were still there.

It got later and later, and Jim decided to call it a day. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s have something to eat. You want take out?” Sherlock nodded. “There are menus over there, in that stack of paper somewhere.” Jim dived in, and eventually found one that sounded appealing. “Thai food? You want Thai food?” Sherlock shrugged. “Sure.”

Jim ordered and the food arrived promptly. _Figures. Sherlock would never keep the menu of a place that took forever to deliver._ They ate in near silence until Jim decided he’d had enough. “So… are we not talking about the elephant in the room?”

“What is there to say? You kissed me, I stayed put. You kissed me again, I kissed back.”

“And? What did you store away in your mind palace? Don’t think I don’t notice you doing that.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I stored away things like the shape of your lips, the way your heart rate accelerated when I put my hands on your waist, you know, that sort of thing.” Jim smiled. “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard talk about kissing like it was a scientific procedure.” Sherlock laughed. “Well, that’s the way I process it… unless you’d like to give another sample?”

“You could just say please, or even kiss me first,” muttered Jim. “I can’t help but feel like a lab mon-” He was cut off as Sherlock smashed their lips together in a most ungraceful manner. Jim felt the hands go round his waist and he wasted no time in wrapping his own arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him closer.

When the kiss ended, Jim grinned. “And suddenly you’re Mr Sex,” he quoted. “Shut up,” said Sherlock, flushing a little. “You know, Sherly, there is a little arrangement that can be made that means you can kiss me any time, any place.” Sherlock tilted his head. “If you’re suggesting a relationship…”

“Of course I am! It’s an age old love story; evil boy meets good boy.” Sherlock smiled. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t push me. When I say enough, it’s enough. Feel free to ask, but respect the answer.” Jim grinned. “Deal.”


	12. Chapter 12

John pushed open his front door. “Mary? Are you home?” there was a thud from upstairs, and Mary came running down. “Oh, John! You’re back!” she threw her arms around him and squeezed. “Yes, I’m back. Mrs Hudson sends her love.” Mary brushed off her husband and gave him a quick once over. “So, how is he?”

“Who?” said John. “Sherlock, silly!” John laughed. “Oh yeah! No, he’s fine. Back to his usual annoying self.” Mary laughed. “That’s why you love him.” John laughed externally. _Love him? He does my fucking head in, especially now he’s got a new roommate…_

“You made it back just in time! I was just about to cook dinner- spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Sounds good,” said John. “I’ll just be upstairs putting away my stuff.” He climbed up the stairs, wondering what to do. Should he tell Mary about Moriarty moving in with Sherlock and risk being buried alive? There was no way that he’d know, and Mary always had good advice. On the other hand, whatever Moriarty said Moriarty did, and John really did value his life…

He shook his head. He’d do it. He’d tell Mary, ask her what to do, but not before doing a thorough check of his home for cameras and microphones. _Look what living with Sherlock has done to you. Now you feel obliged to check your own home before telling your wife something._

John went down to dinner, stomach growling at the sight of the hot plate of food. He hadn’t realised how sporadic his eating habits had become. He sat down opposite Mary, smiling. “Mary?”

“Mmm?”

“If someone bad said he’d do bad things if you did something, would you still do it?” Mary stopped eating. “John, what’s wrong? Is the bad man Moriarty?” John nodded. “He told me not to tell anyone that he’d moved in with Sherlock.”

“That’s why you moved out.” It was a statement, rather than a question. “You left Sherlock alone with this mad man? John, you know how vulnerable he is!”

“He said Moriarty had asked him for help. He said he was weak, and wouldn’t stab us in our sleep.”

“And you believed him? John, this man had the world believe he was a children’s story teller!”

“I really don’t know why you’re reacting like this!” said John. “You’ve never met the man!”

“That as the case may be, John, in case you’d forgotten, I grew up in that world! I’m a seasoned criminal! If the name Moriarty can make even the most seasoned assassins shiver, then he’s not the type of man you trust alone with your roommate!”

“What was I supposed to do? I was afraid I was being used as blackmail material, so I got out, hoping that by removing myself from harm’s way Moriarty would have no leverage.” Mary took a deep breath, holding her stomach. “Are you okay?” asked John, suddenly concerned with the welfare of his unborn child. “I’m fine, John. Honestly. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blow up like that; it’s pregnancy hormones. I see you did what you thought was best. I want you to do something for me, though.”

“Anything.”

“Visit often. Make sure that Sherlock’s still alright, but don’t tell Mycroft. That would throw a spanner in the works, and endanger everyone’s lives.” John nodded. “Okay. You always do have good solutions.” Mary grinned. “Of course I do.” She leaned over the table and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Come on; dinner’s going cold. Nothing worse than cold spaghetti.”

“I don’t know, I went to a place one time where they served it cold with mint leaves.”

“Eww, really?”

Dinner finished, and John put on a movie. “Don’t wait for me,” said Mary. “I’ve seen it before. Start without me; I just have to go to the toilet.” She waddled upstairs, cursing her swollen stomach. She pulled out her phone, and dialled a number.

“Hello, James? Lovely to hear from you to! Listen, I think we need a little catch up!”

*****

 

Jim was beside himself. “Where is she! How hard can this be! Why can we not find her!” Sherlock stayed silent. They’d been searching for Irene for just over a week, and they were no closer that when they started. “Where is she! I want her I want her I want her!”

“Didn’t you say that there was a son? Maybe it’ll be easier to find the son using Facebook posts or whatever. Maybe one of the son’s friend’s mums will have posted a picture of them together on their first day of school or whatever.” Jim turned to Sherlock, and for a split second Sherlock feared for his life. then Jim ran over and hugged him. “Sherlock. That’s brilliant!” there was a buzzing somewhere down Jim’s leg and Sherlock pulled away confused. “Sorry, that’s my phone.” Jim pulled out his phone, ready to reject the call, but when he saw the number, he smiled apologetically at Sherlock. “Sorry, love, I’ve got to answer this. The less you know, the shorter your sentence.” He grinned as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

A short way down the stairs later he answered the phone. A bright and cheerful voice greeted him on the other side. As he listened, his face grew darker, and he was exceedingly glad he’d left Sherlock in the other room.

“I will meet you at the cemetery at seven o’clock… Yes, you have to come. Don’t tell me you’ve grown attached?... Then it shouldn’t be a problem, should it?” Jim hung up. He took several deep breaths and arranged his face so that it didn’t look like he was about to murder someone. “Jim?” called Sherlock. “I’m coming, dear, don’t worry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who Mary called? I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself. I'm actually rather fond of Mary as a character.  
> (p.s. I don't know anywhere that serves cold spaghetti with mint leaves. That does sound a little weird...)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a rather ambiguous text from Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is where the major character death tag comes into play. If you don't want to read it, you can probably guess what's going to happen, and I'll summarise in the notes at the bottom for you. You can just skip onto the next chapter (if it's up)

John stared at his phone, at the somewhat ambiguous text from Mary. _Hey! After work, meet me at the cemetery @ 7:20. MW._

John shrugged his shoulders. Evidently, it was going to be a mystery as to what his wife wanted until he got there. It was an awfully specific time, though. He put his head back into the game as his next patient was shown into the room by the nurse.

He bought a cup of coffee before heading out to the cemetery. The winter months were beginning to fade away, meaning it was light enough to see without the streetlamps being on. John like this time of year; the cold was disappearing, the trees were blooming back into life, and the city just had this happy feel to it. All the same, the cemetery gave him chills. He seen far too many dead bodies in his time, thank you very much. He wondered why Mary had asked him to meet there. Maybe she had a friend buried there, and she just wanted to pay her respects before they went elsewhere.

He arrived at the cemetery at just after five past seven, hovering just outside the gates. Mary appeared from nowhere, looking like she’d just been crying. “Mary? What’s wrong?” Mary shook her head, and John wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, hey. It’s alright!” he patted her on the back, stroking her back soothingly. “How about we go inside, have a little privacy?” Mary nodded. She took his hand, and lead him through the maze of graves towards one that John could see hadn’t been filled. “Mary, why are we here?”

“Finally asking the right questions, hey Johnny?” Moriarty appeared from the shadows, and John moved instinctively in front of Mary. “Look, Moriarty, we’re just here-”

“You don’t know why you’re here, John. Or rather, you’re beginning to get an inkling.” John shook his head. “You’re not? Sherlock really does credit you with too much intelligence. Of course, if Sherlock was right all the time, then we wouldn’t be here now.”

“Where is Sherlock? What have you done to him?” demanded John angrily. Moriarty held up his hand. “Calm down, John. Sherlock’s fine. I have no intention of hurting my new boyfriend.” John’s mouth dropped to the floor. “Your new… boyfriend?” Moriarty laughed. “You didn’t see it coming? Neither did he. Although, he’s so sexually oblivious, he doesn’t realise it’s all fake.”

“You better start making sense, you… you…” Moriarty looked angry. “Let me spell it out for you. I’m using a relationship to manipulate your special detective into helping me. After he’s helped me however, I’m kicking him to the gutter and leaving him to go insane all on his own.”

John was furious. “How dare you take advantage of Sherlock like that! You really are heartless, aren’t you?”

“You want heartless? Here’s a fun story for you, Johnny-boy. It’s the story of a man who married a woman he had no idea about, and even when his best friend exposed her past, he still loved her, and thought she loved him too. Silly little man.  He didn’t realise that she was still working for me.”

“James, please,” begged Mary. John turned round to her. “ ‘James’?” the pieces fell into place, and John’s heart sped up as he realised just how much shit he was in. “Oh, and it all falls into place!” laughed Moriarty. “Are you going to beg now? I do love it when they beg. Gives me such a power trip, and it works too, sometimes. So, are you going to beg, John Watson?”

“Never.” Moriarty shrugged. “Into the grave with you. Lie nice and flat.” John stayed put. “What makes you think I’m not just going to call the authorities?”

“Because Mary rather expertly picked your pocket. She’s rather good at that; comes from a childhood on the streets, I’d bet.”

“James, stop it!” Mary pleaded again. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be!” Moriarty laughed. “If it makes you feel any better, John, Mary cried as she betrayed you. She really has grown attached to you. Which is why it’ll be her that shoots you.” He pulled a gun and handed it over to Mary who took it, hands shaking. She took aim, tears starting to fall.

John stared down the barrel of the gun, then into Mary’s eyes. “Make it a lethal shot, honey,” he said. He meant what he said about not begging. Mary started crying properly, gun shaking with her shoulders as she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, John. I’ll name the baby after you.” She pulled the trigger.

Her aim was perfect, even with tears obstructing her vision. The bullet tore through John’s throat, leaving a scarlet dripping hole. John fell backwards into the fresh hole in the ground. Mary dropped her gun, and fell to her knees. Moriarty put his hand on her shoulder, and she threw it off. “Are you happy? I just shot my husband.” Moriarty bobbed down to her level, and lifted her chin with one finger. “I’ll have Moran come pick you up. Is your alibi water tight?” Mary nodded. “Janine has always covered for me. She’ll do it again.”

“Good. You want to help fill the grave?” Mary shook her head, still sobbing. “Alright. Could you do that somewhere else? It’s distracting.” Mary stared up at him. “You really are heartless, James Moriarty.” She walked off without another word, and Jim got started on filling in the grave, careful not to get dirt on his suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's dead. If it makes you feel any better, I almost cried writing this chapter. I almost didn't, but John would never have gotten away with telling Mary. As for the 'agent of Moriarty's' theory, that's been bouncing around for a little while, and I wanted to throw that into the mix.  
> Again, I'm sorry.


End file.
